The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Provided they don’t bite your hand off,’ the buck-toothed Mottman had added, pulling lice from his long, stringy hair and popping them into his mouth as he talked.

  Coll sighed, vaguely discomfited by the memory, and warily approached the two horses.

  The two mounts could have been twins, both sorrel, their manes uncut and long, thick tails snagged with burrs and spar-grass seeds. The saddles were Malazan – old spoils of war, no doubt – the thick blankets beneath them Rhivi. The beasts eyed him.

  One casually swung its hindquarters in the Daru’s direction. He stopped, muttering a soft curse.

  ‘Sweetroot,’ Murillio said from beside the wagon. ‘Bribe ’em. Here, we have some in the packs.’

  ‘And reward their ill manners? No.’ Coll circled at a distance. The horses had been tethered to a tent peg, allowing them to match his movement. Three steps closer and the Daru would get his head kicked in. He cursed in a slightly louder tone, then said, ‘Murillio, lead the oxen up beside that peg – use the wagon to block them. And if this doesn’t work, find me a mallet.’

  Grinning, Murillio climbed up onto the seat and gathered the traces. Fifteen heartbeats later he halted the beasts just past the tent peg, the wagon effectively barring the horses from circling any further.

  Coll hurried round until the wagon was between him and the mounts.

  ‘So you’d rather a bite than a kick,’ Murillio commented, watching his friend come up to the wagon, climb its side, then cross the bed – stepping over the Mhybe’s unconscious form – and halt within an arm’s reach of the horses.

  They had pulled their tethers taut, backing as far as they could, tugging on the tent peg. A Rhivi wedge, the peg’s design was intended to hold against even the fiercest prairie wind. Driven deep in the hard-packed earth, it did not budge.

  Coll’s leather-gauntleted hand snapped out, closed on one of the tethers. He tugged sharply down as he dropped from the wagon.

  The animal stumbled towards him, snorting. Its comrade skittered back in alarm.

  The Daru collected the reins from the saddle-horn, still gripping the tether in his other hand and holding the horse’s head down, and edged to its shoulder. He planted a boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle in a single motion.

  The horse tried to duck out from under his weight, a sideways slew that thudded against its comrade – with Coll’s leg trapped in between.

  He grunted but held the reins firm.

  ‘That’ll be a nice bruise,’ Murillio commented.

  ‘Keep saying pleasant things why don’t you?’ Coll said through gritted teeth. ‘Now come over and slip the tether. Carefully, mind. There’s a lone vulture above our heads, looking hopeful.’

  His companion glanced skyward, scanned for a moment, then hissed. ‘All right, so I was momentarily gullible – stop gloating.’ He clambered over the seat-back.

  Coll watched him drop lightly to the ground and warily approach the tent peg.

  ‘On second thoughts, maybe you should have found me that mallet.’

  ‘Too late now, friend,’ Murillio said, pulling the knot free.

  The horse plunged back a half-dozen steps, then planted its hind legs and reared.

  To Murillio’s eyes, Coll’s backward somersault displayed almost poetic grace, artfully concluded by the big Daru’s landing squarely on his feet, only to lunge straight back to avoid a vicious two-hoofed kick that, had it connected, would have shattered his chest He landed four paces away with a thud.

  The horse ran off, bucking with glee.

  Coll lay unmoving for a moment, blinking at the sky.

  ‘You all right?’ Murillio asked.

  ‘Get me a lasso. And some sweetroot.’

  ‘I’d suggest a mallet instead,’ Murillio replied, ‘but since you know your mind, I won’t.’

  Distant horns sounded.

  ‘Hood’s breath,’ Coll groaned. ‘The march to Capustan’s begun.’ He slowly sat up. ‘We were supposed to be up front for this.’

  ‘We could always ride in the wagon, friend. Return the horses to the Mott Irregulars and get our money back.’

  ‘That wagon’s overloaded as it is.’ Coll painfully regained his feet. ‘Besides, he said no refunds.’

  Murillio squinted at his companion. ‘Did he now? And not even a stir of suspicion from you at that?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Murillio, you want the truth? The man was so homely I felt sorry for him, all right? Now stop babbling and let’s get on with this.’

  ‘Coll! He was asking a prince’s ransom for—’

  ‘Enough,’ he growled. ‘That ransom’s going to pay for the privilege of killing the damned beasts, or you – which do you prefer?’

  ‘You can’t kill them—’

  ‘Then another word from you and it’s this hillside under a pile of boulders for dear old Murillio of Darujhistan. Am I understood? Good. Now hand me that lasso and the sweetroot – we’ll start with the one still here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather run after—’

  ‘Murillio,’ Coll warned.

  ‘Sorry. Make the boulders small, please.’

  * * *

  The miasmic clouds churned low over the heaving waves, waves that warred with each other amidst jagged mountains of ice, waves that spun and twisted even as they struck the battered shoreline, flinging spume skyward. The thunderous roar was shot through with grinding, cracking, and the ceaseless hiss of driving rain.

  ‘Oh my,’ Lady Envy murmured.

  The three Seguleh crouched on the leeside of a large basaltic boulder, applying thick grease to their weapons. They were a sadly bedraggled trio, sodden with rain, smeared with mud, their armour in tatters. Minor wounds crisscrossed their arms, thighs and shoulders, the deeper ones roughly stitched with gut, the rows of knots black and gummed with old blood that streamed crimson in the rain.

  Nearby, surmounting a jutting spar of basalt, stood Baaljagg. Matted, scabbed, her fur in tangled tufts around bare patches, a hand’s length of broken spear shaft jutting from her right shoulder – three days it had been, yet the beast would not allow Envy close, nor the Seguleh – the giant wolf stared steadily northward with feverish, gleaming eyes.

  Garath lay three paces behind her, shivering uncontrollably, wounds suppurating as if his body wept since he could not, massive and half mad, allowing no-one – not even the wolf – to come near.

  Only Lady Envy remained, to all outward appearances, untouched by the horrendous war they had undertaken; untouched, even, by the driving rain. Her white telaba showed not a single stain. Her unbound black hair hung full and straight down to the small of her back. Her lips were painted a deep, vaguely menacing red. The kohl above her eyes contained the hues of dusk.

  ‘Oh my,’ she whispered yet again. ‘How shall we follow Tool across … this? And why was he not a T’lan Elephant, or a T’lan Whale, so that he could carry us on his back, in sumptuous howdahs? With running hot water and ingenious plumbing.’

  Mok appeared at her side, rain streaming from his enamel mask. ‘I will face him yet,’ he said.

  ‘Oh really. And when did duelling Tool become more important than your mission to the Seer? How will the First or the Second react to such self-importance?’

  ‘The First is the First and the Second is the Second,’ Mok replied laconically.

  Lady Envy rolled her eyes. ‘How astute an observation.’

  ‘The demands of the self have primacy, mistress. Always, else there would be no champions. There would be no hierarchy at all. The Seguleh would be ruled by mewling martyrs blindly trampling the helpless in their lust for the common good. Or we would be ruled by despots who would hide behind an army to every challenge, creating of brute force a righteous claim to honour. We know of other lands, mistress. We know much more than you think.’

  She turned to study him. ‘Goodness. And here I have been proceeding on the assumption that entertaining conversat
ion was denied to me.’

  ‘We are immune to your contempt, mistress.’

  ‘Hardly, you’ve been smarting ever since I reawakened you. Smarting? Indeed, seething.’

  ‘There are matters to be discussed,’ Mok said.

  ‘Are you sure? Would you by chance be referring to this tumultuous tempest barring our advance? Or perhaps to the fleeing remnants of the army that pursued us here? They’ll not return, I assure you—’

  ‘You have sent a plague among them.’

  ‘What an outrageous accusation! It’s been a miracle that disease has not struck them long ago, what with eating each other without even the civil application of cooking. Dear me, that you would so accuse—’

  ‘Garath succumbs to that plague, mistress.’

  ‘What? Nonsense! He is ailed by his wounds—’

  ‘Wounds that the power of his spirit should have long since healed. The fever within the beast, that so fills the lungs, is the same as that which afflicts the Pannions.’ He slowly turned to face her. ‘Do something.’

  ‘An outrage—’

  ‘Mistress.’

  ‘Oh, all right! But don’t you see the delicious irony? Poleil, Queen of Disease, has allied herself with the Crippled God. A decision that deeply affronts me, I will have you know. How cunning of me to loot her warren and so beset her allies!’

  ‘I doubt the victims appreciate the irony, mistress. Nor, I imagine, does Garath.’

  ‘I’d much rather you’d stayed taciturn!’

  ‘Heal him.’

  ‘He’ll not let me close!’

  ‘Garath is no longer capable of standing, mistress. Where he now lies, he will not rise from, unless you heal him.’

  ‘Oh, what a miserable man you are! If you’re wrong and he tries to bite me, I will be very upset with you, Mok. I will lay waste to your loins. I will make your eyes crossed so that everyone who looks at you and your silly mask will not be able to help but laugh. And I will think of other things, too, I assure you.’

  ‘Heal him.’

  ‘Of course I will! Garath is my beloved companion, after all. Even if he once tried to pee on my robe – though I will acknowledge that since he was asleep at the time it was probably one of K’rul’s pranks. All right, all right, stop interrupting me.’

  She approached the huge hound.

  His eyes were glazed, each breath a hacking contortion. Garath did not raise his head as she edged closer.

  ‘Oh, dear, forgive my inattention, dearest pup. I’d thought only the wounds, and so had already begun to grieve. You are felled by an unseemly vapour? Unacceptable. Easily negated, in fact.’ She reached out, fingers lightly resting on the hot, steaming hide. ‘There—’

  Garath swung his head, lips slowly peeling back.

  Lady Envy scampered away. ‘And that is how you thank me? I have healed you, dearest one!’

  ‘You made him ill in the first place, mistress,’ Mok said behind her.

  ‘Be quiet, I’m not talking to you any more. Garath! Look at how your strength returns, even as we watch! See, you are standing! Oh, how wonderful! And – no, stay away, please. Unless you want a pat? Do you want a pat? If so, you must stop growling at once!’

  Mok stepped between them, eyes on the bristling hound. ‘Garath, we have need of her, even as we have need of you. There is no value in continuing this enmity.’

  ‘He can’t understand you!’ Lady Envy said. ‘He’s a dog! An angry dog, in fact.’

  The hulking creature turned away, padded slowly to where Baaljagg stood facing the storm. The wolf did not so much as glance at him.

  Mok stepped forward. ‘Baaljagg sees something, mistress.’

  ‘What? Out there?’

  They hurried up the pinnacle’s slope.

  The bergs of ice had captured a prize. Less than a thousand paces away, at the very edge of the small inlet before them, floated a structure. High-walled on two sides with what appeared to be a latticework of wicker, and surmounted by frost-rimed houses – three in all – it looked nothing more than a broken, torn-away piece of a port town or city. A narrow, crooked alley was indeed visible between the tall, warped houses. As the ice gripping the base of the structure twisted to some unseen current, the two opposites sides came into view, revealing the broken maw of wooden framework reaching beneath the street level, crowded with enormous balsa logs and what appeared to be massive inflated bladders, three of them punctured and flaccid.

  ‘How decidedly peculiar,’ Lady Envy said.

  ‘Meckros,’ Mok said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The home of the Seguleh is an island, mistress. We are, on rare occasion, visited by the Meckros, who dwell in cities that ride the oceans. They endeavour to raid our coastline, ever forgetful of the unfortunate results of the previous raids. Their fierce zeal entertains those among the Lower Schools.’

  ‘Well,’ Lady Envy sniffed, ‘I see no occupants in that … misplaced neighbourhood.’

  ‘Nor do I, mistress. However, look at the ice immediately beyond the remnant. It has found an outward current and now seeks to join it.’

  ‘Goodness, you can’t be suggesting—’

  Baaljagg gave clear answer to her unfinished question. The wolf spun, flashed past them, and hastened down to the wave-hammered rocks below. Moments later, they saw the huge wolf lunging from the thrashing water onto a broad raft of ice, then scampering across to the other side. Baaljagg then leapt outward, to land skidding on another floe.

  ‘The method seems viable,’ Mok said.

  Garath plunged past them, following the wolf’s route down to the shoreline.

  ‘Oh!’ Lady Envy cried, stamping a foot. ‘Can’t we ever discuss things?’

  ‘I see a possible route forming, mistress, which might well permit us to avoid getting too wet—’

  ‘Wet? Who’s wet? Very well, call your brothers and lead the way.’

  The journey across the pitching, heaving, often awash floes of ice proved frantic, perilous and exhausting. Upon reaching the rearing wall of wicker, they found no sign of Baaljagg or Garath, yet could follow their tracks on the snow-crusted raft, which seemed to be holding afloat most of the Meckros structure, round to the unwalled, broken side.

  Within the chaotic framework of beams and struts, steeply angled, thick-planked ladders had been placed – no doubt originally built to assist in maintenance of the city’s undercarriage. The frosted steps within sight all revealed deep gouging from the wolf’s and the hound’s passage upward.

  Water streamed down the jumbled, web-like framework, revealing the sundered nature of the street and houses above.

  Senu in the lead, followed by Thurule then Mok, with Lady Envy last, the travellers climbed slowly, cautiously upward.

  They eventually emerged through a warehouse-sized trap door that opened onto the pitched, main floor of one of the houses. The chamber was crowded along three of its four walls with burlap-wrapped supplies. Huge barrels had tumbled, rolled, and were now gathered at one end. To its right were double doors, now shattered open, no doubt by Baaljagg and Garath, revealing a cobbled street beyond.

  The air was bitter cold.

  ‘It might be worthwhile,’ Mok said to Lady Envy, ‘to examine each of these houses, from level to level, to determine which is the most structurally sound and therefore inhabitable. There seem to be considerable stores remaining which we can exploit.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lady Envy said distractedly. ‘I leave to you and your brothers such mundane necessities. The assumption that our journey has brought us to, however, rests in the untested belief that this contraption will perforce carry us north, across the entire breadth of Coral Bay, and hence to the city that is our goal. I, and I alone, it seems, must do the fretting on this particular issue.’

  ‘As you like, mistress.’

  ‘Watch yourself, Mok!’ she snapped.

  He tilted his masked head in silent apology.

  ‘My servants forget themselves, it seems. Th
ink on the capacity of my fullest irritation, you three. In the meantime, I shall idle on the city’s street, such as it is.’ With that, she pivoted and strode languidly towards the doorway.

  Baaljagg and Garath stood three paces beyond, the rain striking their broad backs hard enough to mist with spray. Both animals faced a lone figure, standing in the gloom of the opposite house’s overhanging dormer.

  For a moment, Lady Envy almost sighed, then the fact that she did not recognize the figure struck home. ‘Oh! And here I was about to say: dear Tool, you waited for us after all! But lo, you are not him, are you?’

  The T’lan Imass before them was shorter, squatter than Tool. Three black-iron broadswords of unfamiliar style impaled this undead warrior’s broad, massive chest, two of them driven in from behind, the other from the T’lan Imass’s left. Broken ribs jutted through black, salt-rimed skin. The leather strapping of all three sword handles hung in rotted, unravelled strips from the grips’ wooden underplates. Wispy remnants of old sorcery flowed fitfully along the pitted blades.

  The warrior’s features were extraordinarily heavy, the brow ridge a skinless shelf of bone, stained dark brown, the cheek bones swept out and high to frame flattened oval-shaped eye sockets. Cold-hammered copper fangs capped the undead’s upper canines. The T’lan Imass did not wear a helm. Long hair, bleached white, dangled to either side of the broad, chinless face, weighted at the ends with shark teeth.

  A most dreadful, appalling apparition, Lady Envy reflected. ‘Have you a name, T’lan Imass?’ she asked.

  ‘I have heard the summons,’ the warrior said in a voice that was distinctly feminine. ‘It came from a place to match the direction I had already chosen. North. Not far, now. I shall attend the Second Gathering, and I shall address my Kin of the Ritual, and so tell them that I am Lanas Tog. Sent to bring word of the fates of the Ifayle T’lan Imass and of my own Kerluhm T’lan Imass.’